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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25368751">Gather your rosebuds while you may</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaroMoreau/pseuds/NaroMoreau'>NaroMoreau</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Porn, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Femme Crowley (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Implied/Referenced Torture, Jealous Aziraphale (Good Omens), Mutual Pining, Other, POV Alternating, Pining, Victorian</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 09:34:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,762</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25368751</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaroMoreau/pseuds/NaroMoreau</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>For the longest time, Aziraphale has helped Crowley with the tasks the demon deems uncomfortable, all under the Agreement. When Aziraphale finally says no, he finds that he doesn't quite like the outcome.</p><p>-------<br/>Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,<br/>Old Time is still a-flying;<br/>And this same flower that smiles today<br/>Tomorrow will be dying.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>211</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Top Aziraphale Recs</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Gather your rosebuds while you may</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It'd been a mistake to ask Aziraphale for help. Invoking the Arrangement had seemed valid at a point, a way to slither out of a job that had him crawling in his own skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tempting humans comes as first nature for Crowley, but there's that little assignment every century or so that always makes him thank </span>
  <em>
    <span>Someone</span>
  </em>
  <span> for the Agreement. He can feel Hell looming over his movements during those times, demanding tasks that for unfathomable reasons always require for him to play toy. To debase him? Perhaps. To remind him he's just numbers in Hell's rollcall? He wouldn't put it past Beelzebub.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Craftmanship, Ligur and Hastur’d croaked. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Craftmanship, shmarmanship</span>
  </em>
  <span>. There's no finesse in that. Humans lump into </span>
  <em>
    <span>easy target</span>
  </em>
  <span> as a whole. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thank his luck for Aziraphale, until now it'd never occurred. With just a little flick of a hand, the angel had managed to tackle those uncomfortable situations and Crowley had called it a win in Hell's books, stating the human was far more wicked than they'd expected. As long as he proved he was in the vicinity, that was enough for Down Below.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Until now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's trying not to fracture his jaw while grinding his teeth in frustration. He's just back from Aziraphale's with a big, resounding no ringing in his ears.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"No, Crowley, I won't help you this time. You'd have to do your own evil bidding. Yes, yes, I know. But Gabriel has just sent me this - brandishes note - and I can't ignore that. So please go away."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Which makes his ichor boil in the astral plane. Rude notes---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He still has the welts on his shoulder from skipping a job for the Bastille incident. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it would be so much easier, just bad enough if that anger lingered, he thinks, long legs angling over his throne; if this thing sinking fangs and too sharp claws in his core, drove him to the red hot arms of wrath. But it promptly shifts and there it is, again inside him: that smothering anguish, that pain coiled tight in his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Making him bleed and weep and scream inside whenever Aziraphale reminds him he's just expendable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's getting tired of it. Of that random back and forth for which Aziraphale has claimed all control. For which Crowley has relented all control. Willingly. Out of the entire free will he certainly doesn't possess. It’s a game, another agreement of sorts, one that has bored its way under their skins so deep down, it didn't deserve a capital letter. It was more a reaction than anything else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Friendship, Crowley would've wanted to call it - </span>
  <em>
    <span>love as it's carved in his heart</span>
  </em>
  <span> - and yet it seems to land so far away of the intended word… Each of them, point and counterpoint, swaying so out of sync… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And sometimes enough is enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley sighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No reason to dwell in stagnant waters. Things that won't change. He ought to be plotting and scheming for his triumph tonight. And trying to figure out a way to make what Hell wanted, possible, without causing himself to retch. </span>
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale regrets his words about fifteen minutes after he utters them. And manages to comprehend the full scope of his sheer idiocy in one full blow to the jaw.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's at the ball in Lord Cromwell's state, under faux pretenses of thwarting his enemy, working up excuses if Gabriel thinks about peering in his direction tonight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And tonight-- tonight--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tonight is proving to be challenging in ways he hadn't expected; whisking away certainties from over his shoulders and stirring them, oh so painfully. Snatches of thoughts, of memories, of </span>
  <em>
    <span>hopes</span>
  </em>
  <span>, whirling away in the static of his brain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley had arrived shortly after him and as he stepped into the salon, Aziraphale's heart had stuttered at the sight, a thrill careening through him, like a sting of elation at the sight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley was ravishing in a burgundy dress. Haughty chin held high, regal, unamused brows lifted in boring contempt and eyes unveiled. A glamour most likely; the humans unaware. But not for him, no. It'd been so long since the last time he'd caught a glimpse of those eyes, he found himself disarmed, rocking back on his heels. Aziraphale had made an effort to gulp down his champagne as he had taken sight of how beautiful the demon was tonight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley's red tresses, magnificent in their length, gleamed under the lights and the soft, deep expanse of his cleavage had taken Aziraphale's thoughts to a paved road to Hell. Quite literally. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he'd to watch for the best part of the night, young man after young man, some adventurous ladies as well, throwing themselves at Crowley's feet, begging for a word or a glance. And each time one of them had brushed a hand against Crowley, Aziraphale had found himself with a knot of frustration in his throat, a scowl echoing his close-guarded turmoil.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He'd tried to call Crowley's attention but for some obscure reason, the demon was doing his best effort to ignore him and now sat, insouciant, him whole a charm of risqué smiles, next to Lord Cromwell himself, with the man's hand dangerously perched on his arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which brought Aziraphale to his current predicament.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's positively seething. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The minuet starts, the music unfurling over the room, and Lord Cromwell reaches a hand that Crowley takes with an enthusiasm that makes bile rise in Aziraphale's throat. He tries once more, spreads a tentative wave of angelic energy to seize Crowley's attention yet the demon's eyes rove over anything and everything. Willingly avoiding him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The flute in Aziraphale's hand snaps in two when the man leans to whisper in Crowley's ear and the moment twitches with pleased smiles, the shine of laughter clear in his aureaute eyes. Something that Aziraphale has never seen. Not before, not for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And why would he?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He's not aware of how quick his breath is marching until the first signs of a sudden hyperventilation start to show. Head spinning, heart thrumming in overworked temples.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This won't do. This won't do at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By now, he's painfully aware of his own jealousy, of the punishment he has brought upon himself. In the scarce seconds of his dilemma, Lord Cromwell has placed a hand at the small of Crowley's back. Down enough the movement cuts clean through Aziraphale, scalpel-sharp and just as painful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In that moment Crowley tilts his precious fiery head and breaths something in the human's ear, dragging him by the wrist and out of the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale rushes to follow them, if under his own charade of thwart-- And who's he fooling at this point?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels murderous. At the verge of bristling out of his own corporation, which feels constricting like an overstarched collar.</span>
</p><p><span>He can hear Crowley's footsteps, swift and sharp staccatto</span> <span>over polished marble, and casts himself a miracle of silence not to be detected in the secretive drift into the corridors of the manor. The walls breathe, shadows flickering and shifting under the guttering candlesticks. </span></p><p>
  <span>Soon, Aziraphale reaches a corner and when he skirts around it, the sight punches the air out of his lungs. Lord Cromwell has Crowley pinned against a tapestry, his mouth roving over the column of Crowley's neck, cajoling very pleased responses from the demon's lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Time stops, in which Aziraphale feels too aware of every bit of him pulsing out of rhythm, too out of step with the scene unfolding before his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He snaps his fingers and Lord Cromwell finds himself back into the salon, mingling with his guests with no recollection of the past hours and a strong desire to commit to a cause he wasn't sure about until a minute ago. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What the fuck do you think you're doing, Aziraphale?" Crowley yelps, cheeks pink and a little out of breath, smoothing his skirts which were already past his thighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale, face burning, a hot coal of rage sinking heavy in his stomach, crosses the checkered floor in swift strides, until there's just a breath of space between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What do you think I'm doing? I'm helping you!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley has the decency to look surprised. "Helping me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why, yes! Wasn't that what you asked from me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A bout of laughter. So unlike the joyous ring at the salon. "If I remember correctly, that went down like a lead balloon, so I'm failing to see your point here," he says, watching him askance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This close, Crowley's scent is intoxicating, and Aziraphale can't bear to linger on the smudged rouge, the tousled hair. The red marks soiling Crowley's skin. Aziraphale snags his eyes away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, Crowley can't you accept my help now? I freed you from that blasted human! Wasn't that what you wanted?"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Wasn't it? Tell me. For the love of God, tell me it was what you wanted.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, maybe I didn't need your help. Maybe I had him exactly where I wanted," Crowley offers, a warning look leveling Aziraphale's gaze; his words are dull, worn out around the edges, muting the ever present tease of his tone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the needling makes something dark curl in Aziraphale's gut, an awful tangle of yearning and shame curdling inside. "Where? Between your legs?" He asks, hating himself for it, digging blunt nails in his palms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And what's the problem with that? Wasn't you the one who said I should be doing my job? Well, wake up, angel, this is my fucking job!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale splutters because Crowley's right and there's just so much guilt laced with anger inside him. At himself. At Heaven. At Hell. At the circumstances that keep severing the tethers that had long been tied between them. "You're infuriating sometimes!" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Me? You were the one who told me to go away! Weren't those your words? What are you going to back pedal now?" Crowley seems tired. He angles his head away from Aziraphale, just the curve of a sharp cheek, his face guarded in profile. "So, allow me to entertain you this once and sod off from your life. You're wasting your time here, angel."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley turns and Aziraphale knows, feels it in his bones, he will be gone from London by morning. On to somewhere Aziraphale couldn't find him or to nap away their current quandary. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rustle of the taffeta of his skirts snatches Aziraphale from inaction. He clasps Crowley's wrist, mind you, just a slip of a thing between thick fingers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, Crowley, no. Please, don't go yet," Aziraphale says, and there's something plaintive in the words he utters. Something desperate scratching through.</span>
  <em>
    <span> Not now, not like this</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale drifts closer and the raw pain, his jangled nerves, the thousand and one directions his mind has just flown apart resolves when he presses his lips to Crowley's own. The demon seems to melt in his arms, and Aziraphale dares to trace the seam of his lips with his tongue, asking permission and choking on a moan when Crowley parts his lips. The taste of wine of Crowley's mouth curls heavy on Aziraphale's tongue, and he dares to lay a single hand around the bare skin of Crowley's neck. </span>
  <em>
    <span>How can this not be meant?</span>
  </em>
  <span> There's an unexpected tenderness on the strokes of Crowley's fingers along his jaw, each digit seeming to leave the after impression of a searing touch in its wake and Aziraphale can't have enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His free hand finds soon the rigid line of Crowley's bodice and pulls him closer, drowning in the sensations. The flick of a tongue against his own, the damp mess of his teeth scraping Crowley's lips, and breath after breath after breath sparkling in the sweltering atmosphere. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's too much between them, too much history and way too many years of open wounds to be suffused by a kiss, but it's a start.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't go," Aziraphale finally says, reluctantly pulling away. "I'm sorry." </span>
</p><p>Crowley's lips are swollen and red bitten. His chest, heaving. "What, taking the human's place now angel? Offering yourself as a sacrifice for the foul demon to soil you?," he teases, eyes too bright, almost loud.</p><p>
  <span>"Could you stop with that poppycock? Isn't it clear I want you?"</span>
  <em>
    <span>  I love you,</span>
  </em>
  <span> his blood sings and Aziraphale tramples down on the harmonics before they flutter away. "That I desire you with every fiber of my being?"</span>
</p><p>Crowley opens his mouth to say something, because he always needs to say something; infuriating creature that he is. But Aziraphale traps his mouth again with his own and kisses him fiercely.</p><p>
  <span>It's a stifling kiss and soon Aziraphale finds himself going rock hard in his breeches. His hands pull up at the cascade of taffeta and silk, finally exposing the long canvass of Crowley's legs, slender thighs under his petticoats. The demon's moaning in his mouth, coaxing him to follow as he spreads his legs further apart. </span>
</p><p>Aziraphale allows his index to brush the soft curve of Crowley's inner thighs, kissing bruises on his neck, an intent suck on his pulse spot. "You have no idea, Crowley, no idea at all of the torment you just put me through."</p><p>
  <span>"Wouldn't be a good demon if </span>
  <em>
    <span>ah-</span>
  </em>
  <span> if I didn't," Crowley says, wine-soaked voice quavering, all of him squirming and clinging to his shoulders. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale snaps his fingers, a concealment miracle in place. He has bracketed Crowley between him and the wall and he despairs at the bundle of clothes separating them. He feels too hot, his skin boiling, and more than anything he needs Crowley's flesh under his fingertips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"May I?" He manages to eek out, gesturing at Crowley's dress, and he thinks is quite the endeavour under the heavy lidded gaze that might well turn him to smolders in his spot. The demon gasps and nods and Aziraphale tears the dress apart leaving Crowley in just his chemise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pounds of fabric fall to the floor with a soft thud and it's quickly forgotten as Aziraphale looks at Crowley as he unties the last barrier and lets it pool at his feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale takes in the sight of Crowley's body, and the ache in his groin grows to be unbeareable. He can feel himself throbbing as he presses his own weight against Crowley, kneading the swell of his breasts and roaming the sharp angles of his clavicles with his mouth. Sweat and the bite of his perfume tingling in his tongue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Isn't this-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>ah, angel-- </span>
  </em>
  <span>isn't-- this terribly unfair?" Crowley mocks while Aziraphale sucks at his nipples, Crowley's hands knotting in his hair. "I've barely seen-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit-- </span>
  </em>
  <span>the nape of your neck."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You are enough sight for the both of us, dear," Aziraphale croaks while lapping at his flesh, his hands skimming over every inch of skin he can find. "And besides, it isn't me the one being thwarted."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, is that so?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale's fingers settle between Crowley's thighs, trailing two along his labia and finding the wetness pooling at his entrance. He devours Crowley's mouth to quiet his own storm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Look at you. So wet and ready. Would you have let that bloody human to do this?" He digs a finger inside Crowley's cunt, feeling the prick of his own words in his skin. "Were his kisses the ones that caused this?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley angles a leg over Aziraphale's hip, beckoning him closer. "Would you believe me if I say I'd hoped it was you all along?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't say that. Don't lie to me. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A flash of anger darkens Crowley's face. "I'm not-- but if you don't believe me-- What do you want me to say then?" Aziraphale feels Crowley clenching around his fingers as he pins him with his honey mead eyes; his voice almost sad. "Tell me and let's get over with this."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't you want me, dear?" Aziraphale asks, and the question sounds so small and defeated, almost shrinking in its intention.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley parts his lips, a flush pinking his skin from his chest up to his cheeks. A whole second seems too long now. "I-- I do," he finally asserts. "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck, for Satan I do</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the blasphemy feels like wine down his throat. Aziraphale crashes Crowley's mouth with his own, hard enough to bruise; Crowley's hands grabbing palmfuls of his jacket. Aziraphale struggles his way out of the confinement of his breeches that are uncomfortable, so uncomfortable now, until he finally draws himself out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His cock is throbbing, neglected until now, a bead of precum glistening at the tip, smeared on Crowley's pubes as he presses against him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Angel, </span>
  </em>
  <span>for pity's sake</span>
  <em>
    <span>--"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale positions himself at Crowley's entrance and pushes inside and the demon </span>
  <em>
    <span>moans, </span>
  </em>
  <span>a needy, wanton sound rent from his throat that makes Aziraphale sink to the base in one smooth flow, a grunt rumbling deep in his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh fuck!" Crowley breathes, clawing at his shoulders. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it's exquisite. Everything that Aziraphale could've conjured up in silent nights, cheeks burning in shame for wanting what he shouldn't have, dissolved in reality, the moment he fills Crowley up. Tight and wet and hot all at once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley rolls his hips, to accomodate him, taking all his inches with moan after gasp after sob and Aziraphale stills, fighting with dogged determination, the need, the urge to chase that flare of white electricity arrowing through him whole.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then Crowley bucks his hips. "C'mon angel," he teases. "I won't break."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hush, temptress."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, Aziraphale picks up his pace and starts thrusting inside him. It's so easy to slide and move within Crowley, as if somehow the demon was made to take him whole.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sets a grueling, punishing pace, a slow build of pleasure sitting at the bottom of his spine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Tell me, Crowley," he rasps, tracing with his fingers the place where they're joined. "Tell me you want this."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Aziraphale, </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>, please, keep-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>ah</span>
  </em>
  <span>, keep going--" Crowley says, his fiery mane now undone and spilling down his shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And there are so many, many words Aziraphale needs to say-- So many, many words he needs to quiet as well-- The balance, askew.</span>
</p><p><span>Everything is just horrible inside. A mishmash of fear and anger and longing that burns and threatens to drown him whole. Such a mess they both are, a tangle of damage and yearning</span> <span>that stretches through centuries with no outlet in sight.</span></p><p>
  <span>And he thrusts into Crowley through that, digging his fingers in his ass and lifting him of the floor. His grip is hard enough to bruise, now anchoring on Crowley's waist, and he snaps his hips, fucking him good, making him shout and cry out his name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're gorgeous dear," Aziraphale says burying the words in Crowley's neck, "so good for me, look how good you take me, how wet and tight you're for me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I bet you </span>
  <em>
    <span>ah fuck--</span>
  </em>
  <span> you never saw yourself doing this with a demon," Crowley says, bouncing on his cock, lashes fluttering and lips parted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Never saw myself--  </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh lord--</span>
  </em>
  <span> yet-- yet it isn't a lie to say I hoped for it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows. Not much of a bed in here though." And Crowley accompanies his statement with a roll of his hips that makes Aziraphale grind his teeth not to finish right there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, no, darling," he says, a moan mid-thrust, "don't turn Shakespeare on me. This is not misery, certainly not, but the sweetest of joys."</span>
</p><p>And this will be as close as he dares, as close as he gets to voice the truth gnawing at his bones for a long time now. He buries the truth pounding into Crowley, making his breasts jolt.</p><p>
  <span>"Gosh, Aziraphale, you fed William his lin-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh fuckfuckfuck, right there</span>
  </em>
  <span>!" Crowley sobs when Aziraphale angles his hips and presses that spot inside him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley's head falls back and Aziraphale circles his clit, feeling he's not going to last long, his balls tightening, his pelvis carrying the weight of his impending orgasm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two, three more flicks of his fingers and Crowley comes on his cock, while Aziraphale fucks him through the aftershocks, his body going boneless in his arms. And then the rush of pleasure throws Aziraphale headlong over the edge, teeth sinking in the flesh of Crowley's shoulder to muffle a growl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale stills - blood in his ears, his temples, his heart beating heavy inside his chest - and spills his load inside Crowley. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They hold each other, the few seconds they can spare to keep feigning, and Aziraphale regrets the kisses he's holding back. Soon Crowley climbs down but before he can snap his fingers to cover himself, Aziraphale sees the teeth mark, jagged red, he just left on his shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, Crowley, dear-- I'm so sorry," he says tracing the swollen skin with careful fingers. "I don't-- I don't know what came over me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Relax, angel, it's fine. You we're having an orgasm. It happens."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale blushes, when his fingers find a patch of scabbed-over skin a few inches down his own work. He splays a hand, finding the welts go long down for the span of quite a bit of flesh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley stills and snaps his clothes back on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What-- what were those, Crowley?" Aziraphale asks and feels his tongue heavy as lead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The demon seems to consider something and sighs. "Told you angel, my side doesn't send rude notes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a part inside Aziraphale that wants to scream, to ask, to inquire and go down with avenging fury but this is not his place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One day, perhaps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he asks. "When?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley seems completely out of his cool and aloof veneer, almost refusing to make eye contact.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"When, Crowley?" Aziraphale presses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The Bastille."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Aziraphale feels like if someone had just slapped him across the face; anger and fury burning in his blood. But he bites the syllables off the words perched on his tongue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What can he say? It's been over fifty years now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I-- I care about you, Crowley, you know that, don't you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And those excuses of words feel like acid in his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley turns and stares at him, face blank. And then he laughs, a horrible sound wrenched out of his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'll believe you-- I'll believe you when the time comes and I'll ask you something and your first answer won't be no."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ask anything from me," Aziraphale finds himself saying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a curious look in the demon's eyes. A bright, unguarded hope.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then is gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Not now," he says, "too many lies for one night."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sidesteps Aziraphale before he can react and disappears in the labyrinths of the manor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next day, Crowley has left London.</span>
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